In the Wrong
by lydia the eleventh
Summary: Post DMC James Norrington, returned to his former position and name, must confront the consequences of his actions, his guilt, what he was, and what manner of a man he has become,to decide what is the only right thing to do.
1. The Commodore's Shadow

(Author's Notes – First POTC fanfiction, don't kill me if it's terrible!

None of these people belong to me, unless I get creative and write in another character, but any of the originals are not mine.

For a bit of a back-story, to explain, I am an unapologetic Commodore Norrington fan, have been since the first time I saw it. I hate the way his character is treated in DMC, but, hey, I'm not writing the script. I guess this is my take on what he thinks about the events of DMC and where he goes from there. Mild AU, changing a few things said in the movie about how Norrington got to the point he was in, like the hurricane, the warrant, etc. This will probably become complete AU once the third comes out … which can't happen quickly enough!)

**In the Wrong**

I regretted handing the heart over to Beckett as soon as I did so, though I didn't realize it at first. Disgusting as it is to me to admit now, I was too happy that as soon as Beckett took the heart, he handed me my sword.

"Commodore Norrington," he said in the slick manner of his, "It was nice doing business with you."

I left without a word.

I found myself in my former apartments some time later, listening absentmindedly to the bustle as servants brought back to service what had once been abandoned. Sitting in my former bedchamber, I could hear someone, hopefully my valet, pouring a bath. God knew I needed it. Now that I was not in the company of pirates, lowlifes, drunkards, and filth, I noticed an awful stench that emanated from … me. As this horror gradually subsided, another took its place. Not long ago I had been a lowlife. Not long ago I had been as disgustingly drunk as the worst of them. Not long ago I behaved in a manner which would have done the slimiest among them proud.

And now I was reaping the benefits of it.

Looking around, I saw my former life restored to me. I had my apartments, my old flag lieutenant Gillette was to return to call in an hour's time with my commission, and my sword lying on the desk before me. The honor attached to the name James Norrington had never been truly lost in the public's eye, for they believed I had perished in the storm. The only soul who knew was Beckett, and I had given him bribe enough to keep him silent for eternity. All I had left to regain was my appearance, and that would be mine before long.

I felt some shadow of my former confidence return as my valet left me to clean myself, something I was only too eager to do. The water was murky as my conscience when I was through. It had been so long since I had seen a razor I feared for a moment I had forgotten its use, as I looked at itmy only thought was – _weapon_. Trying in vain to push that dreadful period from my head, I went about the business, noticing in shock how pale the skin under was compared to the rest of my face. It was something I'd have to deal with, unless vanity got a better hold on me.

Hair brushed, powdered and queued, I confronted the uniform. It was my right, as an officer of his Majesty's Navy, to wear, as was the sword. I'd spent my whole life in earning them, but lost them through folly. Now I had earned them again, no matter the method. My duty was all I had left. And, as I eased the gilded coat over the immaculate white of the shirt and waist coat, I was reminded it was a heavy one.

Pleased, I looked at myself in the mirror. Though I almost looked like the man of months before, I, for a moment, could only see what I had been merely an hour ago.

A pirate.

Conscience be damned! I was an officer and a gentleman! I was! And am!

And I may be a gentleman, but God help those who get in my way.


	2. An Unworthy Reward

(Author's Notes – Thank you, thank you, thank you to my reviewers!

Later in the chapter, Younger James/ Norrington's conscience is in _italics_ and Norrington is in **bold**. Hope that's right.

I had some trouble writing this chapter, so if anyone has any criticism, I'd welcome it. This is probably going to extend into the 3rd movie, now, since I'm using rumors about Norrington being promoted to Admiral.)

"Norrington! Admiral!"

On his entering the room, Gillette snapped to attention.

"Admiral?"

My eyes widened in shock, my step faltered on the threshold.

"Orders came in, Norrington," my old friend smiled, "Some one up there must favor you. You're alive and you've been promoted to Admiral! And you pretty junior!"

Gillette handed me an envelope with a familiar seal, while I stood, practically numb from the surprise.

Admiral Norrington? I had dreamed of the rank for … for almost my whole life. And here it was. I tore open the seal and read the script, hardly daring to believe it. Admiral James Norrington. Admiral. Admiral.

And all I had to do was hand over the heart of Davy Jones.

It was too easy.

It did take the joy out of the promotion, though, that I had been awarded my dream not because of merit, but because of what amounted to a bribe.

Admiral Norrington, though. Admiral. My father would have been proud.

"Admiral?"

"A bit shocked, Gillette. It was not an expected promotion."

"Who could? And for shocks, well, Admiral, you've practically just returned from the dead. Where were you all those months?"

"Nowhere of consequence," I replied curtly, hoping Gillette would take the hint and leave that disgusting chapter of my life closed.

Gillette had not been my flag lieutenant for many years for nothing. He quickly let the subject drop.

"I suppose you've not heard, then, Beckett's planning a little excursion."

"No, I had not."

"Secretive little thing. If I didn't know better, I'd say he just wanted a yachting trip. You are 'requested and required', if you please, to accompany Beckett on the _Swallow_ tomorrow. You don't know the _Swallow_, either, I presume."

Good grief, Gillette did ramble. What did Beckett want with me? What could he want from me that he didn't already have?

"The _Swallow_ is the replacement for the _Interceptor_, sent over from England last month. Good sailer. Even better than the _Interceptor_."

"A curious turn of events," I mused, "I don't suppose you know what he wants with me."

"No idea at all. You're the only officer requested to go. Funny business."

Gillette was too earnest a man to suspect anything, too young and naïve to suspect foul play – it was both his strong point and Achilles heel. Me – I – I suppose there was a time, not too long ago, where I would have been, while not totally unsuspicious, not as – as paranoid as I was now. I had been crossed and double-crossed, and done a bit of backstabbing myself, now, and I had the strangest feeling about this "yachting trip". Beckett commanded the whole East India Company fleet, hundreds of ships, from tiny, one-masted schooners to hulking ship-rigged merchantmen. To commandeer a ship of _the_ fleet – of the Royal Navy – the HMS _Swallow_, was a show of power. Power had indeed shifted. Governor Swann was as good as a puppet, and me … I wasn't much better, for all my rank and guilding. This whim of Beckett's smacked indeed of something sinister, and I could not help but feel that someone had just walked, or more likely sailed, over my grave.

_Wait, wait, wait! For God's sake, are you listening to yourself, man? Get a hold on you and your superstitious nonsense! Sailed over your grave, indeed! Norrington, you've lived among those thieves and lowlifes too long, you've begun to think like them! Their pitiful superstitions, their senseless, brainless traditions – Look where you've sunk! James Norrington, you're a fool! A damn fool! A damn fool who's lost his post and only regained it through treachery! Treachery, man! You're no better than them! You're no better than a pirate, and even lower than Beckett! Look at you, Admiral James Norrington! Look at you! Would your Father be proud of you?_

God, I hated my conscience. Mostly, and it pains me to admit this, because it was right. It was right in every particular about me, how I was still more pirate than officer, more scum than gentleman.

"Well," said Gillette nervously, "I shan't trouble you any longer, I daresay you have enough to deal with. My earnest congratulations, sir, and wish you the very best of luck."

And then he was gone.

I was, as I had been since … since the first crossing from Jamaica, alone. Completely without human contacts and ties, without real friends to confess everything to or to go to for comfort. Governor Swann, to be fair, had been a mentor, almost a father figure, since my own had passed on, and his daughter … Elizabeth … the only person I found it in myself to truly love, with my mind, my heart, and my soul, since my family's passing. Though I loved my duty, and never questioned my obligation to protect, I did it because I knew I had to be strong, or who would be? Who would be the scourge of the Caribbean? Who would save innocents from the fate my family suffered? With Elizabeth, I wanted to protect her still, but it was different. It was not – or was it an extension of my duty? Hadn't I taken the girl in, tried to comfort her after what she saw on the crossing from England? And watched her grow up. Watched her grow up instead of Charity and Ophelia. But something was different with her. Something in her eyes, and in the depths of her personality, captured me. I could no longer stop loving her than I could stop in my duty, and it would be far easier for me to stop breathing than that.

I found myself, again, without any aid, or any reason to keep going, save it was my duty. I served, and was not served. Once I had been selfish, and how ill that had turned out! Once I had been the lowest, and with God as my witness, I would never be so selfish again.

Little did I know how much that resolution would be tested.

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Later that night, after supervising the cleaning of my rooms, and a half-looked at dinner, I wandered the darkened house with only a candle to hand, not really knowing where I was headed, only knowing, fearing that I must keep going or something bad would catch me. Whether it was my conscience or my memory, I wasn't certain, but I could feel its icy breath on my neck, skeletal fingers closing over my heart with a fiery, inescapable grip, and though knowing escape was futile, I could not bear to give into it. It drove me through long corridors, through empty sitting rooms laden with memory of times long since past, through parlor and dining-room and ballroom, through office and library, until I hit a dead end. The portrait gallery.

This house, I should add, was not my own. It was my father's, who had built it with money from the plantation and shipping interests. I had inherited it, my father's only son, on his violent death.

And now I was confronted by him.

Coming to a dead stopped, I looked up at my family. Tall, proud, proper Father in back, dressed in his finest, protective arms behind his family. Beaming Mother, a little worn, but with her quiet grace and loving smile, holding my sisters' hands. Older Ophelia, maybe ten in the picture, the lively grin in place, freckled, spirited eyes flashing through the paint. Younger Charity, more like my mother, only six, quieter, more studious, a thoughtful expression in her eyes, like she was watching some ship on the distant sea. And me. Stoic James, hand on my sword, by my Father's side, penetrating gaze fixed on his future self. There was no sadness in his eyes, only pride and joy in his family, his devotion to others. He saw no compromise; he saw the right path and knew, no matter how long the journey, how high the obstacles, how cutting the opposition, how tempting the distraction, he needed and would do it.

Fives pairs of eyes, four long dead stared at me. Five pairs of eyes, four brown, one green, bore down on me. They were all disappointed in me, gravely disappointed, but none more so than James. Than me. I was stuck under my thirteen-year-old self's stare, the same green eyes that I saw everything through held me with their contempt. The same stare that had sent midshipmen scurrying for cover now evinced in me a desire to hide. I could take his anger at myself, but not his contempt, his disappointment.

_How could you, James? How could you?_

I could swear, that late hour of night, that he, James, was speaking to me. Myself, almost twenty years ago, was stirring in the annals of time to torment me for what I had done to myself. To others. For having failed in my duty to others.

_Twenty years gone to naught, James. Twenty years! Everything you worked towards, everything that ever meant anything to you, gone! What does your duty mean to you now? How can you go back on what you did? To good people, too._

**They were pirates!**

_And good men. For everything pirates have done, to you, to me, to Mother, Father, Ophelia and Charity, to the world at large. Jack Sparrow is a pirate, but he, too has a streak of good in him. William Turner is what you were – honorable, a gentleman of his word, completely unselfish. Elizabeth Swann – God, James, you loved her, and you love her still – look where you've put her!_

**Stop, damn you, stop!**

_I'm right, James. I'm right. You've done undeniable evil._

**I can't – I won't face you!**

_Then face him!_

My past self, who I had by now accepted as a force separate from his painted apparition, and aligned with my conscience, pointed to my portrait. The Commodore. That was me, only months ago. Just months ago … the paint could still be wet.

There I was, in my full dress uniform, as I had been at the promotion ceremony – the highest point in my life – and the hanging – just before my lowest. I stood in the foreground, one hand on my sword, another on the globe, hand over the Atlantic. In the background the _Dauntless_ rode at anchor, in Port Royal, the lights of Fort Charles visible in the distance, looming over the town. Just as Fort Charles loomed over Port Royal, he, the former Commodore Norrington loomed over me. They stood for the same thing. For order, for justice, for protection. For being the incorruptible guardian. As nothing could corrupt the stony Fort, nothing could corrupt the Commodore.

Or so things had been with me.

So they had been.

So it would seem.

Absurd, wasn't it, that I was thinking over Jack Sparrow at this moment? Sparrow never had too far to fall. I had fallen bellow him, from _this_.

I stared up at myself, at him, uncomfortable under his fiercer gaze. And then I had it. I was too haunted to remain face-to-face with the ghosts of my past.

I ran, fleeing them. Even when I sat in my rooms upstairs, I could feel their disproving gazes, strengthening in intensity after every brandy I drank. Just before I passed out, I heard one word:

_Failure._

My father wouldn't have been proud of me after all.


	3. Judgement of the Music Box

**(Author's Notes: Thank you, thank you, thank you to my reviewers, as always!**

**This chapter is giving me a lot of trouble, particularly the middle and again at the very end. Feedback, suggestions, anything appreciated! I feel like I'm writing Norrington too darkly … what do you think?)**

Drink provokes strange dreams, as I have the unfortunate burden of knowledge. This dream was one which had always haunted my thoughts, but it had quite gotten worse of late. Perhaps it was the brandy.

That night, I found myself back aboard the _Susan_, twenty years ago, on the crossing from Port Royal to England. A vacation, my father called it, a trip to see my relatives living in London. At the time, we were all overjoyed with the idea – Father wanting a change of scenery, Mother wanting to see her sisters again, Ophelia and Charity never having seen England, and I had not seen my home for over ten years. How much time we spent packing, and running about, telling our friends goodbye! I remember Charity threw a fit when Mother wouldn't let her take her music box, saying it was too fragile, too rare, and she didn't want it broken. Charity wound it up one last time before we left, letting the gentle waltz float through the empty mansion.

It was the last thing my home would hear from the entire Norrington clan for over ten years.

Back on the _Susan_, I saw myself. My perspective was like that of a bird hovering in the air – I could not move, nor make a sound to warn them. But I tried, as I had tried every night for the last score of years. I saw Mother usher Ophelia and Charity below with the other women and children, the men – and _her­_, I had to remind myself – including Father and my 13-year-old self, take a pistol and cutlass apiece as the brig with the Devil at its bows swooped down on us and tore the ship apart. I saw the blood on the decks, the fierce fight raging as the _Susan_'s defenders came up against an insurmountable enemy.

Normally, at this point in my dream, my perspective ended when he, teenage James, was knocked out cold with a wicked blow to the head – after all, I could not know what occurred next, though I had a fair guess at it.

Now, my perspective lowered, as I found myself free to wander about the decks through the remaining battle. Nothing I could do could possibly change the events of that day, though I swung hard and shouted to wake the dead. Hah … wake the dead. Gallows humor. I really had hit the worst. My eyes, even accustomed to the carnage and the fate of my family, clouded as a pirate, a lowdown, filthy, heartless pirate ran Father through; I choked back a raw scream when they caught _her_, fighting to the very end. The bell stopped clanging as they slunk below, pillaging and killing and raping – I heard my mother's cries until they died out, and the sobs of my sisters, abruptly cut off. And then, nothing.

I woke up, bent over the desk, hand still on the decanter, indecently early the next morning, head splintering with what I believe is commonly termed a hangover. Whatever it was, it hurt. Like hell.

Glancing at the dark outside, and figuring I'd been asleep only four hours or so, I relit the lamp and poured myself another brandy.

Well, tried. The decanter was pretty near empty.

"Why's the brandy gone!"

This was definitely more to myself than to anyone else – who could be up? And did I truly want someone, even a servant, to stumble over the drunken wreck that only looked like Admiral Norrington?

Well, they may as well.

He's gone for good.

Candle in hand, I made a very wobbly line for the door, but as soon as I stumbled over the threshold, I had a thought. A very morbid thought. I fumbled with the ring of keys from my study and wandered – yes, that is the proper word to describe my means of locomotion – none too directed through the silent halls and up another flight of stairs, to the third floor. The deserted third floor. I don't know why, only that I was under the influence of a massive amount of drink. To this day, though, I believe that I went to check on Ophelia and Charity, though I knew they were long dead in the bosom of the sea.

Oddly enough, for being drunk, I did not scratch at the lock for long, finding my entry into the long abandoned rooms with ease. Though I had not trod this floor in twenty years, I still knew where everything was – where the lamps were, the desks, the bed, and the vanity. In the dark I lit the tiny golden lamp over said vanity, looking down at its small size and remembering how small they had been.

"Ophelia! Charity!"

There was no response in the dusty bedroom.

As I had so many times before, with or without Charity's permission, I took the music box from the hidden compartment with trembling hands, placing it precisely in the center of the dusty surface. Fumbling fingers found the key and carefully wound up the mechanism, as wondering eyes watched the now tarnished gold wink in the lamplight. Finally, with an unintentional glance behind me, to make sure my long-dead little sister was not going to reprimand her living, drunk and out-of-his-wits older brother, I lifted the lid.

And that's where they found me the next morning, paralyzed by tones of a music box which would not play. I felt as one punished, the veriest sinner brought to his knees in repentance, starving for forgiveness in front of the stony angel. Now I knew how the pirate Barbossa felt – alive but not living, dead but not at peace. In vain I supplicated the angel for mercy, only to be worshipping at a statue that had lost its spark.

For so long as I thought only I knew how far I had fallen, what terrible crimes I had committed – enough not only for me to hang myself for breaking every law I had ever sought to uphold and every decency I had sought to spread, but enough to keep me in the lowest circles of Hell for all eternity – now I came to realize the most terrible truth of all.

Charity knew.

She knew that I had sent even more decent men than the Helen I worshipped still to their deaths. She knew that through I travesty of justice I survived. She knew that I had tried to kill myself almost every day since then, and knew I was too much of a coward to go through with it. She knew I had sold my honor, my decency and my duty to survive. She knew about the pirate brand. She knew how red my cutlass had run on those ships. She knew how many screams I had caused, how many dreams and lives I ruined. She knew about the women and the whores. She knew how much I drank. She knew my drunken rampages. She knew that I served under the man I swore to kill. She knew I swore to kill a man in revenge. She knew I swore to kill in cold blood. She knew I would not let the blame for my ruin rest on the guilty party's shoulders – my own. She knew of my jealousies and betrayals. She knew I was now a pawn under the most filthy, self-serving scum that the world had ever seen. She knew I hadn't done a thing about it. She knew what I had stolen to sacrifice for the façade of who I was, remaining the blackheart underneath.

My God, she knew.

Charity knew.

Charity knew.

Charity knew.

Looking to the cross on the wall, above the reflection in the mirror I knew not and did not want to know, I prayed. I prayed to God, to Christ in heaven. I prayed to Charity. I prayed for Mercy, and when that did not come, I prayed for release from the mortal coil. I prayed that I would not have to serve Beckett; I prayed that what was right would prevail. When silence still prevailed, still I persisted. I prayed for guidance, and I heard only my conscience's sadly derisive laugh floating through the halls from the gallery.

"Charity! Please, Charity, hear me!"

"Sir?"

A worried footman leaned through the open door, watching his disheveled master plead with an invisible entity. He caught the whiff of brandy on me, or perhaps the miasma of my other sins, and left.

My gaze again found the mirror, looking straight into my own eyes. Or were they my own eyes? Did my sight deceive me or did the green fade to a deeper, kinder brown, my features soften and shrink, and my hair lengthen?

"Charity!"

It was neither a question nor a declaration, but a raw cry from the depths of my bleeding heart.

_You're on the wrong side, James._

Charity knew.


	4. The Enemy of Thine Enemy

**(Author's Notes – Haha, Brokenspar lives! No, I haven't dropped off the edge of the earth; just really busy. I'm very, very sorry I haven't updated in the longest time – I hope this makes up for it in some way. This is going against what I know about POTC:3 … but I did say this was going to be AU. And I'm finally getting to some action … well, story-wise.)**

"_Admiral_ Norrington," Lord Beckett saluted me ironically from behind his desk that morning, "You don't look yourself. Are you unwell?"

His concern was quite touching, really. I knew I looked a wreck – hearing of the grand adventure from Gillete, I dressed accordingly – undress uniform, sea boots, and I had not even looked at powder. I knew I had dark circles under my eyes, from all the sleepless drinking. I didn't look at all like an Admiral, and, for once in my life, I did not feel a pang of shame.

"I did not sleep well, Beckett."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"I would suggest, in the future, _Admiral_ Norrington, that you show some respect for your superiors. And I am very sorry to hear that you couldn't sleep because of your guilty conscience and bleeding heart."

Beckett turned back to his paperwork, completely ignoring my presence. Stabbing my sword into the desk … and maybe missing … did not seem like so bad an idea at the current moment. I found my hand straying toward the convenient hilt, and then abruptly move it to my side. Homicide was not going to get me anywhere.

That did not make his comment any easier to swallow.

"_Lord_ Beckett," I began, "What is the point of this expedition you're planning?"

"Always to the point, Admiral. Very well. I intend you to command the _Swallow_ and sail out of Port Royal. I shall be on board to supervise you, of course. Mercer will be accompanying us as well, and I suspect if you are not afraid of me, then you are of him. At least Swann seems to find him intimidating."

"_Governor_ Swann."

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Governor _Swann, _Lord _Beckett."

"Oh, yes, I suppose the old man is still the Governor."

"What is it that you want here?"

"Do you think everything is as simple as what one wants, Admiral? Do you honestly think that I am as simple as that? You can't boil a man down that far, but I will humor you. What I, Lord Cutler Beckett, want from this hateful quarter of the world, is power. And I assure you, I am well on my way to achieving it, thanks to you, I might add. Help me and I will help you. Not that you have a choice, of course."

"Power is your only objective?"

"Is it not every man's objective? Look around you, Admiral. Every man will sell himself, to some degree, for power. It may not be power in its rawest form, but it is power, just the same. Sparrow will do anything for his freedom … for the _Black Pearl_. Miss Swann will do anything for her current objective. Turner … perhaps he is the rare exception, but he will do anything for one thing. And you, Admiral. You sold out your friends for your old position … one of power."

"Are you advising me that was a mistake?"

"Illustrating a point, merely. You aren't the good man people thought you were, so there is no point in you trying to take the moral high ground with me, Admiral."

"I claim no moral high ground. I have what I want and I accept the consequences."

"Do you?"

The man had an eerie, heartless stare, even more penetrating than my reflection's.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"I do. And you are not in a position to refuse," Beckett stood up, accepting the coat and hat offered to him by Mercer, "I know about you, Admiral. I know what you did after you resigned. One wrong move and I can send you to the gallows. Do you want to hang like a common pirate?"

"I'm not afraid to die."

"The question is, Do you want to?"

I, coward that I was, made no response.

"Good."

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On the _Swallow_, Beckett took to the captain's cabin, allowing Mercer the duty of watching over me. It was of some comfort to think, from what I observed, that Beckett was seasick. Mercer, however, was not, and watched the goings on like a hawk, telling the helmsman every now and again to change course slightly, though as to what object I had no idea. Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon was fading into a foggy dusk, with no land in sight, before anything happened.

The sea calmed and the wind died, a circumstance any sailor would be frightened of, without taking into account any of the supernatural that had been my unfortunate lot this last year. The _Swallow_ glided on her own momentum for a bit, until she stopped almost dead in the water.

"Should we order boats?"

This was asked of me by the commanding lieutenant, and I, being under the thumb of the seasick wretch in the cabin, relayed the question to Mercer, who promptly vanished below decks.

"I don't like this, Lieutenant," I admitted to the man, a swarthy man who looked decidedly nervous.

"Too calm by half, sir," he responded.

I weighed my options. How much to trust this man? How much to warn him? How could I lead another ship into a decidedly perilous situation for my own selfish reasons? No, I told myself. I am not responsible for this. This is Beckett's doing. Anyone's death from this expedition is on his head and not my own.

"Should danger arise, Lieutenant, you know what to do. See to your men's safety. Don't bother with Lord Beckett's or his secretary's."

"And you, Admiral?"

"I will fend for myself, Lieutenant."

_I will accept the consequences of my actions._

Why did I find myself thinking of Turner during this? The man was what I had failed to be. No, Turner had fought against Jack and myself. Turner was in this for himself as well.

No one was innocent in this world, it seemed.

My reverie was interrupted in the most violent way possible at that moment. As the crew watched in horror, the sea bestirred herself, the sky divested itself of the last vestiges of sunlight, leaving the way lit by St. Elmo's Fire, and the ghostly _Flying Dutchman _rose from the depths, her frightful sides towering over us. The crew of the _Swallow_ was frozen in terror, including the Lieutenant standing beside me.

From behind me I heard a rough chuckle and whiffed the acrid smoke of a pipe, followed by an uneven step. Though a sword could do almost nothing against those who were already dead, I had the hilt in my hand.

"Captain Jones."

I spun on my heel, suddenly not afraid. What could he do to me that I wasn't afraid of? More importantly, What could he do to me that I didn't deserve?

"If it isn't James Norrington," Davy Jones replied poisonously, "Who are you now?"

"Admiral."

"Seems like my heart bought you a fine promotion, Admiral Norrington."

"It did."

"My, my, proud of yourself. Is he proud of you?"

"Who?"

"Very good question, Admiral. Who is proud of you? I don't have the time for such a lengthy search; I'd like to speak with you about the business of my heart."

"Not for me to say, Captain Jones. I don't have it," I replied, watching his irritation grow, "I believe you're looking for one Lord Cutler Beckett."

"He is here, Admiral," said a certain, high-pitched voice, "Ah, so this is the legendary Davy Jones. It's quite a let down, to be quite frank."

Somehow, Beckett found it in himself to stand unconcerned before the demon of the deep. Perhaps it was because he was not a man of the sea.

"You have my heart, Beckett. I'm inclined to ask you to give it back."

"Or what? The first move towards threatening my interests you make, Captain Jones, I stab the heart. Very simple. As long as I have the heart, you do what I want, is that understood?"

Captain Jones struggled with the completely understandable impulse to murder Beckett before realizing that Beckett most likely had given the heart to someone else to dispose of in case of an attack on his person, and knew he had to give in to Beckett.

Though I was never one to believe in the fairy tales that surrounded the sea, I had begun to believe since Jack Sparrow had entered my life only a year before. A legend of the sea stood before me, one I had feared along with the rest of the midshipmen, but had left in my childhood. My men had whispered about him, feared him more than pirates, than hurricanes, than fever, than the knife, than death itself. I might not have been afraid of him, but I was in a curious sort of awe, like one feels from seeing a wonder of the natural world. To see him shackled to Beckett's will rankled me. Like seeing a horse broken, or an elephant directed by the will of its mahout, there was something tragic in his surrender.

"Understood."

"Good," Beckett smiled, nodding to Mercer, "I have two things which I expect to be done. Promptly. One," he held up a bony finger, "You kill the Kraken. Two: Raise the _Black Pearl _and bring her to me. I have a need of a fast ship, Captain Jones, and the old _Wicked Wench_ might be just the one. I regret that I myself am not able to supervise you, nor is Mercer, for he has business of his own in Port Royal. Therefore, Admiral Norrington will be accompanying you, to make sure you do as I command."

Beckett smirked at me, then added, "Norrington, should you not follow my orders, I will have no compunctions about burning your house and murdering your friends. It would be a pity for Gillette to die; he is so close to promotion."

He had me, check and mate. I could not bear the weight of another man's death on my soul. I had no choice but to go with Jones.

"Captain, you have a week to do my bidding. If in a week the _Pearl_ is not in Port Royal, you do not bring me the teeth of the Kraken, Norrington does not affirm that the Kraken is indeed dead, and your mechanism is not destroyed, your existence is moot. Norrington, if you are not in my office before the week's end, your friends pay the consequences."

Beckett retired once again to his cabin, and left me on deck alone with Davy Jones, both of us now quite in the same boat – exploited by the man who knew our weaknesses. Something made me wonder why Jones did not want to die, after the existence he led – the same part of me that wondered why I was caught again by my own damn selflessness.

"No matter how annoying that shrimp is," Davy Jones said at last, puffing angrily away at his pipe, "The lubber is seasick."

Maybe things weren't so irresolvable, after all, I realized as Jones shot me an irritated, but somehow less malicious look than before.


	5. Shades of the Flying Dutchman

**(Author's Notes – Thank you, thank you, thank you to my lovely reviewers! Here I am, on Chapter 5! Another toughie. The chances of me rewriting this are pretty high, so feel free to critique all you want! I'm sorta curious – what do you all think of Norrington's reactions to various bits of news in the chapter? The next chapter is going to have a bit of a speculation on a spoiler for POTC3 ... whereas up till now, everything (except Norrington's promotion and stint on the FD have been pure speculation), and then, if the stars align, kick into the action. That's the general plan, at least.)**

Holding one of the many teeth of the Kraken had an eerie, ominous feel. The monster itself was drifting lifeless in the cold bosom of the sea, the monster which had been the undoing of so many men, and its many, many teeth lay in piles throughout the _Dutchman_. How odd was it to separate the Kraken from aforementioned teeth in death? It seemed to do so was less of proof and more of defacing a legend – like a pirate ship stripping her prey's dead Captain of his sword, or a usurper taking the signet ring of the king – something that was wrong. My conscience stirred, its shackles clanking in the back of my mind, telling something I already knew. This was wrong.

Jones's horrible crew went about cleaning up the mess, throwing bits of flesh over the sides and scrubbing the blood from the deck. The Kraken was gone. Gone. No more innocent sailors would fall prey to it. No more midshipmen would shake in their hammocks at night. No more legend. Though I knew that the Kraken had to die, before any other innocent lives were lost, it saddened me to see it go. Jones was none to happy about the entire matter, puffing away on his pipe with a bloody cutlass still in his hands.

"It had to be done," I said finally.

Jones looked up.

"Cigar?"

I nodded as he handed me a match.

"That shrimp had it done to prove something."

"I agree with that. But Captain Jones, the Kraken's been the terror of the seas, killing innocent sailors, and sinking ships, for centuries. Beckett wants to save money."

"You defend him?"

"I've lost enough sailors to not want to see another die."

"They died because of you. And they still forgave you," Jones huffed.

"How would you know?"

"Boy," he growled, "I am the sea. I know every man that's sailed her, and his fate. Why? They all end up in my locker or on my ship. And I've heard quite a few of your men in my time."

"Who?"

Jones smirked.

"Who have you spoken to?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Captain Jones," I pleaded, "I have lost more to the sea than any man alive. She's been my making and my breaking, like many before me. Like you. Show me a scrap of mercy, and I will in turn show you my own."

"Aye, we're not so different, are we, Admiral? A woman has ruined us both – a woman as fickle and mindless as the sea. Driven to distraction, the two of us."

It was a half sad, half cruel smile that followed. One I know had crossed my own countenance a hundred times before as I thought of Elizabeth. I had a bottle of rum as my only friend and a whore as my consolation when I had worn that smile. Devil may care, my life wasn't worth the killing then. I wondered, what did Jones do, before he cut out his heart? Did he, too, turn to the wine and the wench? Or had he been faithful until the bitter end?

Jones struggled a bit with himself before he decided to take some sort of half-brutal pity on me.

"The Sea claimed almost all your men, save a handful. Of them, most elected to die. But one did not. A young lieutenant, said he wasn't ready to go. He needed to see land one more time, and if he had to serve a hundred years before the mast, he would pay the price. Groves, his name was."

"Groves is here? Theodore Groves?"

"Aye."

"Where?"

"Groves!"

Jones's bellow rang across the deck, across the ocean. The crew froze and then parted, making way for a shadowy figure. I watched his progress with trepidation. Though Jones had said my crew forgave me, I felt as though they should not, and deserved to be despised for what I had cost them.

As Groves drew closer, I began to lose my fear of what he thought of me, and instead wonder what the sea had done to him. The uniform coat he had treasured in life still hung stiffly from his dead shoulders, the sea-boots he had spent the last of his prize money on walked on, encrusted with barnacles and sea life. I could not see his face, but wondered if it, too, bore the marks of the sea.

"He is before the mast?"

"Aye."

I tossed the cigar overboard.

"How am I to face a man I killed?"

"The sea took him."

"And I made my own choice, in the end," interrupted a familiar voice, "Don't fret about it, Admiral."

Jones backed off to the side, respectfully almost, to leave me to face Groves.

The sea had changed him, I decided. Groves looked like he must have in that instant before death – he was pale with dark rings under his dulled eyes. What looked like seaweed had replaced part of his hair, tying the lot into what passed for a queue. Barnacles had begun to take root in his torn, wrecked uniform, along with oysters and limpets and other clinging shellfish. Through tears in his clothing his skin appeared to have taken on the coloring and texture of fish's scales in some areas, and the hand he offered me had spines like those of the lionfish.

"I'm not poisonous, Admiral. Trust me," Groves reassured me as I hesitated to acknowledge his hand.

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Either."

I took his hand and shook it.

"You've done well for yourself, Admiral. When were you promoted?"

"Recently. After I came back from Isla Cruces."

"Isla Cruces? You were there when the Kraken pulled the _Pearl_ and her crew down?"

My heart stopped dead. I knew the _Pearl_ had gone down, but her crew – Jack Sparrow, Mr. Turner and Elizabeth?

"Her whole crew?"

I was choking on my shock, it was a wonder I managed to speak at all.

"We picked up no survivors."

I closed my eyes and shook my fist.

"My God."

I staggered as my legs gave out on me and then fell to the decks. I had killed them all – if Sparrow or Turner had had the heart, they could have called off the Kraken through forcing Jones's hand. I knew I had betrayed them for my own ends, but had never dreamed – I did not want, in my heart for them to die – and I as good as ran them through with my own sword. More men's death's on my head. And _hers_. Elizabeth was dead because of me.

"Admiral!"

Groves knelt next to me in his concern, spineless hand tugging me upright.

"They're all dead?"

"Yes. Why?"

"My God, why do I learn this now?"

"What?"

"Miss Swann and Mr. Turner were on the _Black Pearl_. I saw them on it with my own eyes. I would have been on the _Pearl_ as well, had not complications arose on Isla Cruces. And they died because of me. Because I stole the heart."

"Admiral?"

"Groves. I was on Isla Cruces with Sparrow, Turner and Elizabeth. I came with them in the _Black Pearl_. I dug up the chest with my own hands and fought with them over the heart. Jack Sparrow lost the fight but ended up with the heart. And I stole the heart from him and feigned a sacrifice to escape without their knowing I took it. The heart bought me the promotion, Groves."

"Admiral?"

Groves still had no idea.

"After the hurricane when I lost the _Dauntless_, I resigned my commission. I couldn't live with myself after killing my crew, and never even returned to Port Royal, simply sent a message to Governor Swann. I took to drink, and found my way to Tortuga, where I worked as a deckhand and sailed before the mast on pirates' crews. One night I signed up on the _Black Pearl_ – after that, an emissary of Beckett's found me and told me should I recover the heart or the compass, I would have my position restored to me. Thence I went to Isla Cruces and stole the heart. And was promoted. Now do you understand me, Groves?"

"No, Admiral, that wouldn't happen to you."

"I assure you, it did. I was a rum-pot deckhand that took orders from pirates."

A nameless swab walked by, this one half shark and half man – a massive jaw with half-sharpened teeth, sandpapery skin, and a triangular fin running down his backbone. Though I never saw his full face, I could feel his stare.

"Admiral Norrington?"

Jones stumped over as I got to my feet.

"The Kraken killed the entire crew?"

"Nothing survived, I assure you," Davy Jones assented.

"I killed them all."

"Pirate," Jones shrugged, "You looked after yourself. Nothing wrong with that."

"Even when it killed the woman I love?"

Gone was Jones's pity and camaraderie. He sneered.

"She didn't love you. She acted the part and dropped you."

"No," I replied, "She never did."

"Sir, you're a wreck," Groves interrupted, "Captain Jones – please, no more. Let him rest. We go to Isla Cruces tomorrow – he'll have enough then to contend with."

"Know your place!"

"I do. I am obliged to you but I stand with my former Captain."

"You're on dangerous grounds, Groves."

Groves' eyes flashed with the animation they had held in life glaring furiously at Jones.

"I'm of half a mind to flog you."

"The man was defending me, Captain Jones," I interrupted.

"He is before the mast on the _Dutchman_."

"I'll call Beckett into this. I am, for all intents and purposes, in charge of you. Any insubordination on any matter whatsoever will not be tolerated."

It was Jones's turn to glare to kill. But I wouldn't let myself be frightened.

"Groves goes free of punishment. We land at Isla Cruces tomorrow. And I will turn in for the night."

Jones stumped off to his cabin, and shortly after the familiar strains of an organ came thundering through the night. Groves and I walked the quarterdeck.

"Why did you accept?"

"Drifting at sea, drowning and then not, and then again – half dead, out of sight of land, no water to drink but water to drown in – it was like the sea kept me alive only to see me in my agonies. When Jones came, I claimed relief. I couldn't wait any longer, neither living nor dying. And I needed a chance, however small, to see land … and Alice again. She knew every time I left there was a chance I wasn't coming back, but … I had to see her. Still have to. To say goodbye, for good."

"I'm sorry – this is all my fault! I've killed so many men – I killed every man aboard the _Dauntless_, from Captain Granger to the powder monkeys. I killed every soul on the _Black Pearl_ to recover my position. My hands are bloody red!"

"Admiral, it was our job. We knew we were going to die, more likely than not."

"You didn't have to die. If it weren't for my orders – you'd still be alive!"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"How can you be so complacent?"

"Death makes stoics of us all."

"Death makes cowards of us all," I snorted.

"Only if you survive."

"The threat of death, then. For instance, I should not be on this cursed ship a moment longer were it not that I must obey Beckett. He knows I'm not afraid to die, thus threatening my life does him little good. He's instead taken to threatening to kill Gillette and the others. If I don't return to Port Royal – they're as good as dead. But in order to do right by them, I must do wrong by others. I know its wrong Groves, I know and she won't let me forget it. Charity. You knew her, before she died almost a score of years ago. It's like she's alive again, haunting my thoughts – she won't let me forget I'm in the wrong!"

Groves looked at me like I was a man possessed.

"Admiral, I think you've had too trying a day. Get some rest, please."

"Groves, I don't sleep anymore. I haven't slept in a week. I can't let myself – I can't just sleep when that bastard Beckett pushes me around like a pawn, threatening everything I hold dear. If I stand up and do what's right, I lose everything again – my name, my honor, my title and now my life. He'll have me hung, Groves. And then when I'm not there, I can't even imagine what he'll do. If I do what's wrong, I struggle on, and keep the ability to do what's right."

"Scylla and Charbydis, Admiral."

"Which one is the greater good? Is it better to wrong one man or another? If I thought my death would make any of this right," I shook my head sadly, "I'd have hung myself long, long ago."

"Do right by what your heart tells you."

"Groves … my heart? My soul? They don't exist."

"Your conscience, then. You're a good man, Admiral. I knew it from the first, just like the rest of the crew. You have our faith."

"The faith of a dead man?"

"That was unworthy, Admiral."

"All I want is my life back Groves. My life to be the way it was before the hurricane. I just want my life back."


End file.
